


A Gift

by tristesses



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Double Penetration, Mind Break, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Other, Oviposition, Tentacles, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 13:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19476841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: Grand Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo makes a mistake.





	A Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiriamKenneath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriamKenneath/gifts).



Grand Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo has made a very significant mistake.

Once again, he has underestimated the power of the Force; once again, he has dismissed it, assumed despite all evidence to the contrary that it is the province of _ozyly-esehembo_ and religious fanatics. In retrospect, he can see his flawed reasoning: he was afraid. Strange, to allow fear to unravel him as it had; he had thought he was above that. Apparently not.

So he has made a mistake. Mistakes can be corrected. Thrawn, caught in the powerful grip of a curving tentacle as thick around as his torso, is certain this one can be, too.

Taking his bearings, he realizes they've jumped to hyperspace while he struggled. It's disorienting to watch the blue flickers of hyperlight fly by without the protective filter of a ship's viewport. How is he breathing? Do the purrgil emanate some kind of gas to keep him alive—alive and calm, perhaps? There is a scent in the air, like musk, that he can't place.

He takes this knowledge and tucks it away; it is not immediately important. With effort, he steadies himself despite his spinning head. 

There ahead of him, in a V formation, ride the thick bulks of the rest of the purrgil pod. He vaguely recalls reading some esoteric scripture claiming that the purrgil king—he recalls this clearly, having taken note of the cultural implications behind naming such a beast a king—chose to remain behind the pod to guard its rear, much the same way he would deploy an ISD to guard a space station. If that scripture is true, then it must be the king who has him.

He flexes his arms against the tentacle and finds it unyielding. Looking around, he finds himself alone; Bridger has fled or been taken elsewhere. For what, Thrawn doesn't know. Where their end destination may be, Thrawn has no idea.

There are too many things Thrawn doesn't know right now.

He hears a deep bugle, and the sensation of forward motion halts. They remain in hyperspace, but at a standstill, as the rest of the purrgil pod brakes and turns, gliding starboard in an elegant arc until they are arrayed around the purrgil king—and around Thrawn—in a half-circle, each tilted to the side to watch him and the king with one massive glowing eye.

Eyes located on the side of its head would suggest a prey animal, Thrawn thinks, therefore one unlikely to eat flesh and blood. Although their relative size and the lack of an explanation for why else the pod would have brought him here makes the thought less reassuring than he perhaps wanted.

A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye; Thrawn turns his head as best he can without the freedom of movement of his spine, looking above him, and sees one of the purrgil king's hind tentacles unfurling, peeling open from stem to stern, very much like a flower blossoming, to reveal what looks like thousands of smaller tentacles within it.

These, unlike the prominent hind tentacles, are covered in a thick, viscous liquid that makes them shine in the eerie light of hyperspace, reflecting electric blue off the purrgil's violet-blue skin, and, perhaps due to their smaller size, are much more flexible and capable of grasping than the hind tentacles. As they draw closer, Thrawn sees circular growths along the sides of the tentacles: suckers, he concludes, based on the connection he draws with the Kamioan squid.

The tentacles are reaching for him.

A tremor of alarm moves through him. Again, he flexes his arms; again, he is unable to move the purrgil king's tentacle from his body. But when the smaller tentacles reach him and start to wrap around his skull in a slimy embrace, covering his eyes and nose, blocking out the glow of hyperspace and stopping up his breathing, Thrawn's instincts whisper, Run.

When an animal is cornered, it will do anything to escape, and Thrawn is ultimately no better than any other mammal, for all that he despises it. He thrashes like a creature caught in a trap—which is what he is—he kicks and struggles, and when that fails to do anything, the tentacles continuing their inexorable movement across his body, he bites, as hard as he can, his jaw muscles bunching as he clamps down on the small tentacle where it has slid past his mouth.

For a moment, he thinks it worked; his pulse spikes and his muscles tighten, ready to lunge. But it is simply the hind tentacle passing him from its grasp into the seeking arms of the dozens of smaller tentacles. His incisors, flat and useless, omnivore's teeth, do nothing. The only result is that the liquid coating the tentacle gets into his mouth, and is so unexpectedly tart, saliva floods his mouth and he swallows convulsively.

The dizziness hits him within seconds, a spinning sensation, then an odd wavering feeling, as if he is swimming through water with his eyes open—and then, goosebumps erupting on his skin, a sudden awareness of his body, his heartbeat, the rasp of his uniform on his skin, the pressure and seeping wetness around his waist and wrists, around each thigh, where the tentacles are wrapped.

 _Poison_ , he thinks, strangely calm, considering the situation.

Then one of the tentacles finds the cuff of his sleeve and squirms underneath, leaving a sticky trail and a tingling sensation where it touches his skin. Thrawn hisses and tries to shake it off, to no avail.

As it travels up his arm, it pulses, growing thicker, and tears the reinforced fabric of his uniform as easily as if it were flimsiplast. The other tentacles tighten around his waist, their liquid seeping into his uniform, that strange tingling all over his body now. It is not unpleasant, and yet at the same time it summons a deep disgust inside Thrawn—though whether it is disgust at the slime or at the unwilling pliancy of his own body, or both, he doesn't know.

Another tentacle, this one up his pant leg, performing the same routine as the other one, ripping apart the fabric as it squirms up his leg. If Thrawn didn't know better, he would think the purrgil king was stripping him on purpose. But these are animals, and have no concept of sapient modesty.

And yet…there is something purposeful about the purrgil king's movements, and they had come when Bridger called.

Alarm wells up in Thrawn again, but he is too thoroughly entangled to thrash around. He can only hang there, excruciatingly aware of his own helplessness, feeling his heartbeat pound in his skull and his pulse throb in every tingling area the tentacles touch. His breathing is coming shallow and frantic; his eyes are slits. Fear. This is fear. He hasn't felt it in a very long time.

Then—a sudden wave of calmness. Artificial. Something imposed on him from outside forces.

 _The poison_ , Thrawn thinks again, _a paralytic, a hallucinogen,_ but then in his mind comes a sense of negation, a profoundly disconcerting feeling, as if he is holding a conversation with himself but is unable to guess his next thought.

His next thought is _Bridger_ , for the Jedi are known to control minds, but the boy is nowhere to be found.

Which leaves one option.

"What do you want from me?" he whispers to the purrgil king.

A sense of relief, and then pain, sudden and shocking, as the purrgil king begins to rifle through his mind. Thrawn grits his teeth and bears it; it's not the worst pain he's ever felt. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waits for the purrgil king to tell him his purpose here.

Images begin to flash in the darkness, flickers of memory: a tree's roots digging into the soil, flowers blooming, a single egg, a Chiss woman, a pregnant Chiss woman, an egg again, the pregnant woman again, then a seed, buried deep in the ground.

Thrawn's eyes fly open.

"No," he says, "no, absolutely not, no—"

A sense of sorrow from the purrgil king. But the tentacles clutch him tighter.

They worm their way around his legs, splaying them wide, and wriggle their way beneath the last vestiges of his clothing, ripping them away from his body. Thrawn fights it, panic lending him strength, but his humanoid strength means nothing compared to the size of the purrgil king's tentacles.

They curl across his thighs, smearing tingling liquid across sensitive skin, and Thrawn is not hyperventilating as the tentacles begin to massage the slit between his legs where his _ech'ta_ is beginning to evert, responding to stimulation— _just stimulation_ , Thrawn thinks, _merely a physical response_ , but it is hard to rationalize when his own body is betraying him.

One tentacle has wrapped itself around his wrists and pinned them behind his back, and another has wormed its way around his neck and is brushing its slime against his cheek, prodding against his closed mouth. Thrawn clenches his jaw, refusing, but the pressure on his throat increases until he has to gasp for breath, and the tentacle takes advantage and thrusts into his mouth. Thrawn tries to bite at it, but it stretches his mouth wider until he can't bite down anymore.

Then, to his horror, he feels another tentacle squirming between his buttocks.

 _They will rape me in every orifice until they find the one they want_ , he realizes with twisting terror. _The one for their eggs._

He tries to jerk away, to arch his back and his hips to avoid the grasping tentacles, but only succeeds in placing himself further into their grip. His _ech'ta_ is fully everted now, and as he glances down, he can see its rigid stalk protruding from between his legs. A tentacle curls around it, sending ripples of pleasure down his spine, and then, even worse, it wraps itself in coils around his _ech'ta_ and slides up into the pouch where it rests when he isn't aroused, which is swollen with blood and ripe for pleasure.

He has had lovers use their tongues there. Now, the tentacles rub against the pouch in a gross parody of that, and Thrawn moans through the tentacle in his mouth. The pleasure mounts and crests—

And then the tentacle writhing around his buttocks thrusts inside him, and the moan turns into a scream.

The slime serves as lubricant, but no lubricant can be enough for an unprepared body. It hurts and Thrawn thrashes, the pleasure now just a dull ache as the tentacle squirms inside him, filling him up with more and more of it until he feels as if he might die.

His only solace is knowing that the purrgil king will most likely need a live body in which to deposit the eggs.

The tentacles coiled around his _ech'ta_ pulse and squeeze, pulse and squeeze, and horribly, the pleasure begins to rise again within his body. Thrawn resists with all of him, trying to push the tentacle out, trying to wrest control of the situation from the purrgil king, but he can't. He lost control a long time ago.

Perhaps it is time to admit that.

He is weeping. He can feel the liquid on his cheeks, or perhaps it is slime from the purrgil tentacles. It doesn't matter. Desire builds and builds alongside pain, both of them electric sparks running up and down his spine and drawing taut. He's whining and moaning, sobbing, begging. The purrgil king is vaguely apologetic inside his head, but mostly determined.

His orgasm feels physically ripped from him, something more pain than pleasure, and he collapses limp in the tentacles' embrace when he is done.  
It's over, he thinks wearily. Now they will implant their eggs.

Instead, they begin again.

At some point, Thrawn ceases to think. What else is there to do? If he were more aware, he would realize it's a defense mechanism, but he is not. His entire body is a star of sensation he can't describe, overwhelming, nothing left but a body to be impregnated by the purrgil king.

It is a relief when the eggs start sliding inside him, one by one, until the pleasure is gone and only pain is left in its wake. Glancing down, he sees his stomach is distended, full of the purrgil king's eggs.

Appreciation cuts through the distress in his mind, a foreign invader: the purrgil king thanking him.

When the tentacles slide out of him and uncurl themselves from his most sensitive parts, he doesn't understand what is happening. When the purrgil king raises him to its great bulk and tucks him safely underneath it, he doesn't understand. The purrgil king shuffles through his memories and plucks out the image of a mother cradling her child. Of course. The purrgil king is defending its eggs, and it must guard their incubator in the process.

Well. At least he is safe for the time being.

Thrawn closes his eyes and, body aching, mind blank, sleeps.


End file.
